


The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: Volume 1

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Series: The Spaces Between [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cannibalism, Developing Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Exploration, Hannibal is Hannibal, Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, References to Canon, References to Drugs, Sassy Will Graham, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Swearing, Touching, forced drugging, references to amputation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: Volume 1 of a three-volume multi-chapter fic charting Will and Hannibal's post-fall relationship journey.Picking up after the events of TWOTL, Volume 1 explores Will and Hannibal's first tentative steps towards reconnection. Hannibal is still Hannibal, Will is still salty... and Bedelia is in trouble!'Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence.'From 'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell' by William Blake.The remarkable Arkarti has brought to vivid life one of my favourite moments from this fic. I am in absolute awe of her exquisite work and my grateful thanks go out to her for a wonderfully rewarding collaboration! See Chapters 7, 8 and 10 for her beautiful picture.Thanks also to the lovely Llewcie for beta-ing and to wraithsonwings and PKA for their unending love, support and advice. <3I'm fragile-teacup on Tumblr. Drop by for a visit any time!





	1. Of Dreaming and Watching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/gifts), [wraithsonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/gifts), [PKA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PKA/gifts).



Will Graham is dreaming. 

Sometimes, from beneath weighted eyelids, he catches glimpses of things he believes to be real: a blurred kaleidoscope of images. Chocolate dark eyes watching him with a strange mixture of concern and resentment. A bowl of soup, cupped by slender fingers. A Cupid's bow mouth which curves in encouragement as he allows himself to be spoon-fed. A woman's voice - low, exotic - crooning words of comfort when he cries out in the dark.

Sometimes, in a feverish state of partial awareness, he finds himself reliving moments: crouching, his shaking hands pressing down on the torn windpipe of a young girl; sitting, bloodied and bruised, ridiculously and inexplicably happy, in the shadow of Botticelli's Primavera; plunging, down towards an inky black ocean, cradled by strong arms. These memories he surfaces from smiling, face anointed with tears. 

Sometimes slender arms, surprisingly strong, lift him, pushing his feet to the floor. Force him to move, small shuffling steps that steal his breath and draw soft noises of protest from his throat as that oddly familiar alto voice raps out brusque orders: 'Lift your arms,' 'Stand,' 'Walk,' 'Sit,' 'Lie down.'

Then there are the times he needs to withdraw from the pain he knows his body is experiencing, despite feeling disconnected from that bruised, battered shell. His default escape has always been his river, mind submerging easily into the cool flowing water as he escapes whatever is troubling him, but there comes a point when even that gentle paradise isn't enough to beat back the intense physical pangs. And so he seeks retreat instead in a borrowed sanctuary: Byzantine mosaics, Norman architecture and a graven skull at the foot of the altar.

_Sunlight floods the empty chapel through a myriad of stained glass, warming the slatted wooden chairs. Will takes a seat in the front pew, crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands neatly into his lap as he closes his eyes and lifts his head to bathe in the golden silence. He senses that he has company before the tiny creak of muscles impacting wood and he knows that Hannibal now sits beside him. Whether Will has conjured his image or whether their memory palaces have merged, allowing each to seek the other in their moment of greatest need, he cannot tell. It is enough that Hannibal is here. And a tiny smile plays about his lips._

But right now Will is dreaming.

_He's standing on his front porch at Wolf Trap, staring out across the darkening fields, dressed in a tuxedo. He knows he's dreaming because he sold the Wolf Trap house shortly before he and Molly married and relocated to Maine, and he doesn't own a tux. But no matter. He checks his watch; it's a little after seven. At this rate, they're going to miss the first act. Right on cue, the squeak of the front door as it's pushed open by a firm hand._

He opens his mouth to speak but finds that he can't. Frowning, he tries again, but his lips are glued together and he has to work really hard to peel them apart. Eventually, he manages to squeeze out a few rusty syllables: 'Ha - Ha - nnibal.'

A sharp inhalation and then a voice - accented, male, different from the one he's become accustomed to hearing every day. This voice he knows as well as his own and it evokes a unique response: a slow, sweet ache that starts in his belly and curls long tendrils up and up to squeeze his battered heart and constrict his throat. He hears it often in his dreams.

'Lie still please, Will.'

Will releases a long sigh. He struggles to open his eyes and becomes aware of himself and his surroundings in increments, pieces of a puzzle slotting together with each slow breath. He's wearing pyjama bottoms, lying in the same large bed he seems to have occupied for aeons, and there's an IV butterfly in the back of his hand. He lifts his arm experimentally and grimaces as pain shoots up his bandaged right side.

'Easy, Will. If you move too much, you risk further injury.' A gentle admonishment.

Will turns his head gingerly, wincing as the stitches in his cheek catch on the brushed pillowcase. At the same time he registers the sensation of smooth skin against soft cotton and details from another shredded memory filter into his consciousness: scented foam, a glinting straight razor, swift strokes wielded by a steady hand. Will blinks and the memory evaporates. He focuses instead on the source of the voice.

Hannibal sits in a winged high-back armchair, face obscured by shadows, fingers laced together across his stomach. His appearance is starkly formal, as of old: hair swept to the side, grey slacks, eggshell button-down, russet tie and grey vest. Remote and slightly forbidding. Will wonders hazily whether he could have dreamed Hannibal getting shot, no sign of injury immediately apparent.

'We survived, then.' His voice is husky from disuse and slightly slurred.

'Yes, we survived.' Hannibal tilts his head, tone expressionless. 'Does that upset you?'

Will's not sure how he feels. Actually, right now he doesn't feel much of anything. He’s floating in a cloud of couldn't-give-a-shit and he's pretty sure that's mostly down to the IV drip. He doesn't ask what's in it.

'I'm... surprised. It was a long drop.' He matches Hannibal's neutral tone, enunciating carefully to minimise the slurring.

Blinking away his initial bleariness, Will notes with dispassion the grey-tinged pallor of Hannibal's complexion and the careful way he holds himself. Ah, not one of his dreams then.

Hannibal leans forward, pupils glinting red in the reflected glow of the ceiling lamp. 

'The teacup came together, Will. For us, it seems, it always does.' And he smiles, a darkling thing.


	2. Of Monsters and Men

 

Sometimes sleeping, sometimes waking. Often caught between, though those moments are fewer now. The woman who nursed Will through the worst of his post-plunge haze has vanished, dissolving into the impenetrable mist of the past several... what? Days? Weeks? Replaced by the man who has haunted Will's dreams - his life - for so many days and months and years, it is impossible to remember what _not_ thinking about Hannibal feels like.

Yet despite Hannibal's sudden re-emergence and near-constant vigil, his touch is consistently, resolutely impersonal, as is his conversation. Will can't read him, the drugs coursing through his system dulling his senses. For all he knows, murderous fury could be simmering beneath Hannibal's veneer of civilised calm. Will doesn't enquire.

Time drifts on. Hannibal substitutes injections for the cumbersome IV, delivers the soup (which Will is now well enough to feed himself) and checks Will's stitches: the wounds are healing nicely. At some point, Will notices that his left hand is bare. Presumably his wedding ring is at the bottom of the Chesapeake. He doesn't ask.

Sometimes, when Will feels Hannibal's presence in the room, he opens his eyes to the Wendigo: onyx pupils staring him down, stretched black lips leering. The first time it happens, Will freezes, waiting with a sense of inevitability for the killer blow. But it does not come. And the next time the Wendigo appears, Will stares straight back, fearless, accepting, until the sharp black lines blur and soften into familiar human curves.

Hannibal's stock-in-trade cocktail of sedatives and hypnotics has held Will fast in a snare of tranquillity, his strange new world smothered beneath a disorientating viscous blanket of vapidity. But gradually phantom limbs take form, thoughts hooking on to reality. He's being weaned off - released from his artificial mind prison. He's not sure whether to be flattered or offended by the implication.

A morning comes when he wakes early, almost clear-headed, able finally to negotiate the bathroom independently. A shower is out of the question - legs too apt to give way at inconvenient moments - but he does at least manage to clean his teeth and splash water on his face without feeling as if he's run a marathon afterwards. He emerges victorious, slightly shaky, to find Hannibal observing him from the depths of the armchair.

'Good morning, Will. How are you feeling?' 

Another bespoke grey suit, blood-red silk tie lying flat against a crisp white button-down. A thin-lipped smile and hooded eyes.

_Armour. Are battle lines being drawn once again?_

Wincing as he lowers himself onto the bed, Will shrugs, finds his own safety in sass. 'Like I jumped off a cliff. You?'

Hannibal raises his hands. 'As you see.'

Will's brow crinkles. 'You took a shot to the gut, right? I didn't imagine that?'

'Certainly not. The bullet nicked my large intestine. Made quite a mess.'

'So how come you're walking around?' A coldness in his tone that is unintended, the aftertaste of a poisonous cocktail of guilt and regret.

Uncharacteristic for Hannibal to hesitate, fingers tapping the chair arm as he considers his reply, and concern ripples through Will.

_Ah, but it's good to feel something._

'How long has it been?' Demanding. 'Tell me.'

Hannibal relents. 'One month almost to the day.'

 _One month_. He's lost an entire month. And, contrarily (considering the _reason_ ), he's bothered by it. Bothered too by this gulf of politeness and formality which stretches taut between them.

Separateness.

Yet there is safety in it. As emotional pathways reconnect, how long before the teacup shatters? Again. Before blood is drawn like breath between them? Again. An effort to turn his attention back to Hannibal and those shrewd, see-too-much eyes.

'In answer to your initial question, I’ve had surgery, a blood transfusion and three weeks of bed rest.' No accusation or condemnation in Hannibal's tone, yet once again Will feels it, a cold touch against the back of his neck.

Separateness. 

He shrugs it off.

'Surgery? How did you arrange that?' Surprised yet not surprised - money, after all, is a wonderful conduit to the impossible. 

A sly smile. 'I collected an old debt. During my tenure at Hopkins, a fellow resident suffered an unfortunate relapse of alcoholism, resulting in the needless,' he pauses, eyes glinting as if he's relishing the memory, 'and rather messy death of a young woman in his care.'

'Obviously you're not talking about Donald Sutcliffe,' Will says bitingly. The recollection of how the two of them played him still stings.

Hannibal smirks. 'Obviously. In any case, this particular colleague's weakness was vodka, not ambition.'

Will snorts. 'Quite the motley crew you had there, Doctor. So - you helped your vodka-drenched colleague cover up his mistake in exchange for his immortal soul?'

A pleased hum. 'Blackmail and bribery are wonderful bedfellows, Will.'

'And this surgeon also stitched me up?' 

'Theodore Bernard.' Hannibal nods. 'At his walk-in clinic downtown. You needn't worry - he has been in recovery for some years now. I would not have entrusted our care to an incompetent physician.'

Will's still stuck on _downtown_.

'Hang on. We're back in Baltimore?' How incredibly stupid. And brilliant. It's the last place Jack or the FBI would think to look for them.

'For the present, yes. Once our new papers and passports arrive, we shall be able to move on. But a modicum of patience is required - these things take time.'

_Move on._

Together or separately? Refuses to examine his own feelings on the subject.

'In the meantime,' Hannibal continues, 'Ted has provided the necessary supplies for our aftercare.'

_Ted._

'For a significant fee, I would imagine,' Will interjects, swallowing down an unexpected flash of jealousy. 'Blackmail notwithstanding.'

'Exorbitant. But now that we have all we need, I have dispensed with Ted's services.'

'And have you also dispensed with Ted?' Will asks snarkily. 

A quirk of those sensual lips. 'No, Will. That would have been exceptionally discourteous in the circumstances.'

Weariness creeps in and Will shifts back on the bed to rest against the headboard. 

'Who looked after me while you were recuperating? I remember a woman's voice.' 

Hannibal nods. 'It was Chiyoh. She nursed both of us, as a matter of fact, and proved to be most capable.' His eyes light up with genuine warmth. For Chiyoh, not Will. 

_Why does that matter so much?_

He shrugs it off.

'Chiyoh - was staying at your hideaway?'

'She was.'

In retrospect, it's obvious. Will closes his eyes, a slideshow of scenes from that day playing in rapid succession behind his lids.

_The secreted key, rust-free, turning too easily in the lock; no mustiness when they walk in; Will strolling around the living room, all light and air, as Hannibal pulls back the too-clean dust sheets._

Another moment flashes before him, unbidden...

_Freshening up in one of the bathrooms, pausing at the sink as Hannibal passes by the half-open doorway, eyes on the mirror, lingering with guilty hunger on that tall, lithe figure, elegant again in soft grey cashmere._

Hannibal's speaking again. Blinking hard, Will pulls himself out of the memory to focus on the quiet words.

'Before she left Wolf Trap, Chiyoh promised to watch over me - but only if I was free.' Hannibal clasps his hands together, steeples his fingertips and presses them to his lips thoughtfully. 'I think she knew what I intended to do before I did.'

One more memory to taunt and torment: Hannibal on his knees, uttering words of surrender with loving malice.

_'I want you to know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me.'_

'Did Chiyoh see -' Hesitation. The night they slew the Dragon - a night of endings and beginnings, of unravelling and Becoming - lives within him as something so profound, so ineffable, that discussing it in casual conversation, even with Hannibal, feels sacrilegious. 'Did she see what happened on the bluff?'

A quick nod. 

Colour blooms in his cheeks: hot satisfaction that Hannibal feels the same way. 

'It was Chiyoh who helped me pull you from the water after the fall - not at all an easy feat given that you were unconscious.'

Hannibal stands, grimacing slightly, and presses one hand against his side.  Will tracks the movement but doesn't comment, distracted by Hannibal's choice of words.

_The fall._

Such a charitable description of Will's murder-suicide attempt. 

'Is she still here?'

'Chiyoh left a few days ago to visit an old friend.'

Will nods, barely taking that in, distracted, frowning. 'About the - the fall.'

But Hannibal's shaking his head. 'That's enough for now, Will. You need rest.' Moving towards the doorway, he winces again. 'As do I. Would you like me to bring you an omelette later on? It's time you graduated to solid food.' 

Will swallows his frustration. He won't push it. For now. 'An omelette would be good.'

Hannibal nods, exits and closes the door gently behind him. 


	3. Of Testing and Trusting

A few more days of soup, sleep and omelettes. Little conversation. Since their almost-talk about the bluff, Hannibal’s withdrawn again. He visits only to remove Will's stitches and bandages, lower his meds dose (injections finally scrapped in favour of more traditional pain relief). He does not linger.

And so the sense of hollow separateness persists.

Will feels it more acutely now he's off the drugs: an empty politeness squatting between them. He longs to kick it aside but he doesn't know how. He thinks he longs for a lot of things, but he doesn't know exactly what, and he decides that until he can name them, there's no point in brooding about them.

Another day comes and with it, a fervent longing to shower off a month of sickness. So mid-afternoon he throws back the covers, pads into the bathroom and sheds the pyjamas that have begun to feel like a second skin. Swiping a small bar of soap - sandalwood and white jasmine - and a bottle of equally expensive-looking shampoo from the marble sink unit, he steps into the glass cubicle with a relieved sigh. And long after the weeks and weeks of dirt and sweat and grease have been scrubbed away, he stands beneath the steaming spray, eyes closed in ecstasy. 

Billowing clouds of steam envelop him as he reopens the bathroom door: he's even managed to shave (a clean jaw makes it easier to tend to the cheek scar - screw trying to hide it) and he's feeling triumphant. A self-conscious pause when he realises Hannibal is in the bedroom; tucks the towel more securely around his waist.

'Oh, hi.'

The door to the built-in closet hangs open and Hannibal's busy laying out clothing on the bed which, Will notices with amusement, he’s made up, hospital corners and all. Hannibal glances at him and just as quickly redirects his attention to the clothes. 

_Are you blushing, Doctor Lecter?_

'You've shaved.'

'Uh uh.'

An absurd urge to ask whether Hannibal likes it. Though it raises the question...

'Who shaved me before?'

'I did.' 

'Right.' Slowly, catching at a memory.

_Long fingers tilting his jaw, caressing the shell of his ear. Murmured words, indistinct, against his skin. A reassuring hand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through._

Another empty space in his mind filled. So many of them occupied solely by Hannibal. So disturbing to realise how _right_ that feels. 

_Now who's blushing?_

Hannibal half turns, flicks his gaze to Will's face, eyes enigmatic.

'Do you mind?'

_What were we talking about?_

'Being shaved? Why would I? It makes sense - easier to deal with the wound.'

'Being shaved by me.'

Beneath that calm neutrality, a note of vulnerability that pulls at Will. Even so, he shakes his head in brittle amusement.

'Of all the things you've done, you think that's one I'd object to?'

A flicker of a frown. ' _All_ the things?'

'Well, let's see.’ Folds his arms, a hard edge to his voice. ‘If, for the sake of brevity, we stick with the recent past?  You drugged me, for one.'

Unblinking. 'Yes.'

'As in freebasing, not prescription.'

'I needed you - pliable.'

The hot charge of anger is expected; the accompanying kick of lust is not. 

_What the fuck?_

Shoves the sensation down and perseveres out of sheer stubborn crankiness. ‘You’ve kept me in this room for an entire month.’

‘Kept you.’ A moue of distaste. ‘The door has never been locked, Will.’ Gently. ‘And you were unconscious for most of that time.’

Will opens his mouth to continue and snaps it shut. Really, what’s the point?   

Clearly sensing victory, Hannibal relaxes visibly, gestures to the bed.

'I thought you might like a change from pyjamas today. I've hung a number of items in the closet - this is just a selection. Please feel free to make your own choices, of course.'  

This is the most they've said to each other in days; Will's simultaneously relieved and wary of the thaw. Continues to hover in the bathroom doorway. Domesticity’s an alien concept; its niceties elude him. Should he carry on, get dressed in front of Hannibal? Grab the clothes and retreat into the bathroom?

Hannibal solves the dilemma for him, heads for the door. 

'By the way, your personal items are in the top drawer of the bureau, should you want them. Your wallet.' An infinitesimal pause. 'Your gun.' Doesn't look back at Will.

'My gun? I assumed it was lost in the fall.' Actually, he hadn’t given it a second thought, but Hannibal doesn’t need to know that.

'Chiyoh kept it safe for you.’

'I - see.' 

But he doesn't. Not at all. What is Hannibal playing at? As soon as he’s alone, Will crosses to the bureau and slides open the drawer. There it is: his FBI issue SIG-Sauer P226 semi-automatic. Someone's emptied the chamber but he checks the clip and it's full. And there are the other items: his wallet, battered and salt-stained, and... his wedding ring. Not lost, then. Not consigned to the deep.

_Should you want them._

Gritting his teeth, Will drops the gun back into the drawer and slams it shut.

_Don't fucking tempt me, Hannibal._

Turns his attention to the closet with grim determination. It's stocked with a variety of clothes: shirts, sweaters, pants and vests. Some of the items more Hannibal's taste than his own - especially the boldly patterned ties, which he instantly dismisses - but the sizing looks about right. A pair of tan pants and a salmon button-up shirt lie draped across the bed. Will swaps the salmon shirt for a light blue button-down from the closet and teams it with the tan pants and a pair of moccasins. A small stab at independence. 

Claustrophobia and restlessness kick in. It's a large room - even with the blinds down, enough light filters through to make it pleasantly airy - but confinement is still confinement. Of course, there's nothing preventing Will from just opening the door and walking out – now he knows it isn't locked - but something stays his hand. Hannibal has provided clothing and his gun. Clearly he doesn't intend for Will to rot here. So let the invitation come from him. 

If this is a test of trust, Will wants to pass. Doesn't ask himself why, doesn't unpick his motives, just selects a book from the side table and settles into the armchair.

 


	4. Of Questions and Confessions

When the bedroom door re-opens, Will's still reading, slumped comfortably in the chair, elbows resting on the arms. Whether minutes or hours later, he couldn't say - time passes here without ceremony. It's warm and he's turned off the air con because of the irritating hum, but he's debating giving in and turning it back on when he hears the handle turning. 

As the words on the page morph into Egyptian hieroglyphics, Will keeps his attention fixed resolutely on his book. Hannibal's eyes sweep over him; he resists for a moment longer, then glances up. Hannibal's studying the blue shirt with a knowing smirk. 

'How does it feel to be up and about at last?'

Will closes the book and sets it on the floor, straightening up. Hannibal moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

'It feels - good.' Will tilts his chin up in faint challenge. 'It would feel even better if I could experience more of the 'about' part.'

Hannibal raises his brows. 'Still under the impression that you are my prisoner, Will? If so, I assure you, you're mistaken. You are free to leave this room at any time.' 

'And this house?' 

He catalogues the minute changes in Hannibal's expression with interest and just the tiniest degree of satisfaction - the fractional tightening of his jaw, the disappointment that clouds his eyes for a second before he blinks it away.

'Of course,' he replies smoothly, 'although I would advise you to wait until the papers have arrived.'

Will has no intention of leaving but he's keen to remind Hannibal that he's very much his own man. 

So he flashes an impish smile. 'Thank you. That's good to know.'

Hannibal purses his lips. 'Is this about your family?'

_You're my family._

The thought, emphatic, possessive, forms unbidden and startles Will into an unthinking tirade.

'No, it fucking isn't.' He scrubs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. 'You know, I resented you so damn much for calling me out over my marriage, but you were right.' A short laugh, full of self-derision. 'I loved the normality that Molly and Walter represented but it always felt like - I don't know - like I was the understudy for Husband slash Dad. I was trying too hard. Every day. Then Jack came along and what did Molly do? Sent me straight back to you. And I have to wonder whether she ever knew me at all.'

Hannibal's smile feels oddly like a reprimand. 'Tell me, Will, were you honest with Molly about your past? Did you tell her everything about our relationship or just enough to be comfortable with the knowledge you imparted?'

Will shifts in his seat, gaze evasive as he recalls the exchange that has stayed with him like a guilty secret. 

' _Is your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannibal know each other?_ '

Repeats it now.

'Who asked that?' Coaxing. 'Who asked, Will?'

'Who do you think?' 

'Bedelia?'

'Of course.'

'And what was your response?'

Will looks up. As their eyes meet, his mouth dries and he struggles to frame the words. 'She’s aware enough.'

A flare of pleasure in Hannibal's eyes, swiftly banked, but it tugs a smile from Will.

'Would you like to see them again?'

The smile fades. 'No.'

'Why not?' Hannibal leans forward, inviting confidence.

A harsh exhale. 'They deserve better.'

'Better than what?'

Whispers. 'Better than what I’ve – become.' 

A fragment from his last conversation with Bedelia...

_'I guess this is my Becoming.'_

'What have you become, Will?'

Will's eyes fix on Hannibal’s with helpless, honest longing. 'You.'

_We._  
_Us._

Hannibal’s pupils darken and he reaches out, hand cupping around Will’s undamaged cheek. Will closes his eyes, leans in, savours the warm contact. 

_So long. So long since we held each other on the cusp of the unthinkable._

'Where are you?' Hannibal's long fingers move up, brushing Will's curls aside, delicately tracing the scar on his forehead.

'The bluff.' Will's eyes remain closed as he is transported back to the moment he surrendered to his monster. 

_'It’s beautiful.'_

'It was.'

'Did I say that out loud?' Slowly his eyes flutter open.

'When?'

'Now. Then.'

'Yes and yes.' Hannibal lowers his hand, tilts his head to the side. 'Why did you try to put an end to all that beauty, Will?'

He shrugs. 'It seemed the right course of action at the time, to ensure that the least number of people died.' That's the Cliff Notes version, anyway - complicated truth reduced to facile explanation.

Hannibal tuts. 'Your mathematics is faulty, Will. To ensure that, all you had to do was push me off and walk away.'

Will’s eyes narrow in thought. 'I couldn’t have done that.'

_Should I have done that? If I had, could I have survived it?_

And he's there again, on the clifftop with Hannibal, reliving those final moments, because the memory has him in its grip and it just won't let go. 

_Staggering forward on legs that are barely holding him upright, heart hammering in his chest, eager in his euphoric state to surrender to the exquisite need that until this night he has ignored and scorned and denied. And, oh, the bliss of hands that seek and stroke and press. The elation of being pulled close, feeling warm skin beneath soft cashmere under his cheek. Feeling secure and cradled. And loved. And allowing himself, for just a fraction of time, the luxury of returning that love._

_Just one more moment. Just one more before we have to go…_

'Why not?' 

An easy question with no easy answer. Will sighs shakily and rubs his hands over his face.

'That's always been the question, hasn't it? Why couldn't I ever just finish you?'

'God knows you've had every chance over the years,' Hannibal comments lightly.

Matthew Brown.  
Mason Verger.  
Francis Dolarhyde.  
Will's gun.  
Will's knife.  
Every chance - and yet here they are.

'God had nothing to do with it,' Will counters, tone derisory.

'Then who stood in your way?'

Ghostly traces of conversations past float between them. 

_'We're just alike.'_  
_'You and I have begun to blur.'_  
_'We're conjoined.'_  
_'I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation.'_

'Me. You.' 

_We._  
_Us._

A rueful twist of lips. 'Fighting you felt more and more like fighting myself, so ending you would have been pretty self-defeating.' 

Hesitation on the brink of total honesty. Hard to strip away the layers of self-protection, woven over years. Unfair, too, when Hannibal's battle armour is intact: still presenting himself as the slick, suited professional. 

But someone has to blink first.

Someone has to trust.

'What we did - it scared me.'

'Because you enjoyed it?' 

'Enjoyed it?' A caustic laugh. 'I was overwhelmed by it. It was...' He closes his eyes, searching for the words. 'A perfect moment.' Opens them again, staring into Hannibal, who stares straight back, rapt attention and wonder. 'What does one do after attaining perfection? Where is there left to go?' A slow shake of his head. 'It felt like - a natural end.' Breathes out a sigh. 'And then there was you. The truth is, in spite of all my moral posturing, I couldn't imagine the world without you, and I sure as hell didn't want to live in it. That's why I didn't just push you off. That's why I went with you.' His voice fades to a harsh whisper, the words torn out of him. 'That's why I'll always go with you.'

Hannibal is silent but his eyes glow with a tenderness Will hasn't seen since the bluff. After a moment he leans over, brushes his lips lightly across Will’s forehead, gets up and walks out of the room.


	5. Of Dinner and Old Friends

From emotional overload to physical exhaustion. Will stretches out on top of the bedcovers, snared quickly by sleep. 

_A rush of air. Down, down. Clinging to the warm body clinging to his. Salty wetness on his cheek - not blood, not his. Hannibal's crying silently. Tries to comfort: 'Sh, sh.' Swallowed by black silk, still entwined. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then tugged and pushed and a beloved voice, hoarse with pain and fear. 'Will, don't leave me. Don't you dare.'_

'Will?' 

Hannibal, prompting gently. Will stirs, irritated by the disturbance, preparing to scowl. But he opens his eyes to a room wreathed in shadows; he's slept most of the day away.

Hannibal holds up a suit bag, hangs it on the closet door, unzips it. A black tuxedo and starched white dress shirt. Will eyes them with interest. 

'What's the occasion?'

'I've prepared a very special dinner for tonight.' 

On the dresser, a pair of silver cufflinks and a black satin bow tie. Black patent leather shoes are lined up side-by-side at the door.

'What time is it?' Will props himself up on his elbows. 

Hannibal glances down, eyes lingering, covetous. Will sits up abruptly, swings his legs over the side of the bed. 

_No more freebies, Doctor._

'A little after six. Dinner is at seven.'

'Okay. Er, where should I go?' For all Will knows, this could be a labyrinthine house. The notion that he might perhaps need a ball of twine in order to find his way back, or a pocket of breadcrumbs, prompts a small smile. 

'We shall go together,' Hannibal replies graciously. 'Does six fifty-five suit?'

_I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper._

Will tamps down his amusement, nods. 'I'll be ready.'

At six-fifty, Will's pacing the room, agitation increasing with each 'tick tick' of the clock on the dresser. The collar of his shirt rasps, stiff and new, against the back of his neck and the bow tie is still crooked after half a dozen attempts to knot it correctly. 

Discomfort is allied to wariness. The vivid memory of the last time he sat down to one of Hannibal's 'special dinners' stings. A bone saw encore is, admittedly, unlikely. They've come so far since Florence. Still, retribution for Will's clifftop rebellion is always a possibility.

Six fifty-two. Impulse drives him to the door and he wrenches it open. A first-floor landing, with balcony of glass and chrome. Empty. Will pauses, debating his next move. Straight ahead, a carpeted staircase with floating steps and glass balustrades, leading down to the ground floor. To left and right, more doors. All closed. Bedrooms and bathrooms, presumably.

Mounted on the end wall to his left, a full length mirror, chrome-framed. One last attempt at fixing that damn tie. He strides down the hallway, runs his hands through hair still shower-damp, slicking it back, then tugs at the tie. The knot's stuck and he clicks his tongue in annoyance, squinting down to see if he can work out where he's gone wrong.

'Allow me.'

Large, capable hands at his throat, working the tie loose to start over. Gleaming dark eyes meet startled blue in the mirror's reflection. Will stares, throat clicking on a convulsive swallow. He's never seen Hannibal in formal evening wear before. 

'Do you remember what I told you in the Uffizi Gallery?' Deftly, Hannibal's fingers manipulate the tie into a perfect bow.

Will's eyes are steady on Hannibal's face. 'Yes.'

_'If I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time.'_

Gentle hands settle on Will's shoulders. An unsteady breath, gaze reverent. 'You are beautiful, Will.'

How easy to lean back into Hannibal's strength, to rub a cheek against the black sheen of his jacket. Give in to this fragile feeling, simmering between them for eons.

Denied.  
Repulsed.  
Mostly...

Over the years, battle lines adhered to. Mostly. In the spaces between, whispered suggestions, fleeting touches, stolen moments Will's tried hard to forget.

Then the Dragon, the fall. Arms wrapped around Hannibal, preparing to take them over. _Okay, God, if you want us gone, here’s your chance. But if we survive, you take what comes._

And here they are.

Evolution.

A natural step then to pick up where they left off. And yet. Denial is a hard habit to break.

'Please tell me these aren't matching tuxes.' A sprinkling of sass to cut the tension.

'Not intentionally, no.' Tone light, Hannibal releases him and steps away. 'Though certainly there is a distinct lack of individuality inherent in such suits.'

Perversely, Will's disappointed by Hannibal's easy acquiesce. But he shrugs it off. 

'Come, dinner is served and it would not do to let it go cold.' Hannibal smiles gently.

The stairs lead down to a narrow foyer: polished flooring and eggshell walls. Directly opposite, through a step-down arch, a high-ceilinged living space, sparsely populated with minimalist furniture. The central feature, twin blue armchairs.

_I know where we are._

Jerks to a stop at the foot of the stairs so suddenly, Hannibal almost runs into him. Twists around, incredulous, furious.

'Do you mind telling me what the fuck we're doing in Bedelia Du Maurier's house?'

Hannibal holds up a pacifying hand.

'Relax, Will. If you had not noticed already, the FBI is notoriously dense when it comes to anticipating my moves.'

'Not Jack,' Will ripostes sourly.

'Jack is in Italy. I have it on good authority that he has been haunting the Cappella Palatina in Palermo for quite a while.'

Light dawns. 

'Ah. By 'good authority' I assume you mean Chiyoh. She's been tailing Jack?'

_'Chiyoh left… to visit an old friend.'_

'Since we arrived in Baltimore.'

'Even so, you're not telling me this house isn't under surveillance?'

A pleased hum. 'It would be, if the FBI believed Bedelia was here.'

Will folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Hannibal two steps up. 

'And where exactly do they _believe_ she is?'

'At this moment? Soaking up the ozone and culture of southern France. I hired an excellent double. She will more than suffice as a temporary decoy.'

Will shakes his head, torn between reluctant admiration and exasperation.

'Let me get this straight. All this time, we've been recuperating in the heart of Baltimore, under the noses of the FBI, in Bedelia's house.' 

'Yes.'

'Okay.' A pause. 'So where _is_ Bedelia?'

Hannibal grins wickedly. 'I thought you would never ask.'


	6. Of Rudeness and Participation

Hannibal leads the way through a series of interconnected spaces: from living room to salon to dining room. 

A step behind, Will pauses in the archway, taking in the elaborate tableau: classical music playing softly in the background, ceiling-to-floor cream damask curtains closed, the only light sources the myriad of candelabra and candles dotted around like fireflies.

The mahogany dining table is lavishly set, groaning with crystal, glass and silverware. Its centrepiece, a steaming platter of meat, dressed with tropical fruits and flowers. 

_Vintage Hannibal._

And sitting at the head, Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier, coiffed and exquisite, in a plunging sequinned lace evening gown; expression glazed, a mixture of fear and euphoria radiates from every pore. She ignores her newly arrived companions, stares straight ahead.

_Living theatre._

'She looks stoned,' Will observes. Cold. Scathing. Curious. 

'Morphine,' Hannibal clarifies helpfully. 'It's the drug of choice for most postoperative amputee patients.'

'Amputee?' Will enunciates slowly. Takes a closer look at Bedelia. For a second, doesn't get it. Then he notices the flash of white beneath the table, peeping through the slit in the floor-length skirt where her left leg should be. A fresh surgical dressing covers the stump, high on her thigh. 

'You have been busy.' Turning to Hannibal.

'Somewhat. Shall we?' 

Hannibal gestures for Will to precede him, radiating relaxation. Yet just beneath, his watchfulness is like a restraining hand. A tether. Not allowing Will to float free until Hannibal's sure which version of him emerged triumphant from the Chesapeake: the Lamb or the Lion. Each a facet of Will's personality, each claiming dominance at different points along the thorny path to his Becoming. 

If he were to ask outright, Will would be unable to give an answer. Perhaps there isn't one. He is both and he is neither. He is still himself and he is something new. Whatever that may be, whatever is to come, is yet to be discovered. By both of them. Interesting that in light of Bedelia's current predicament, he finds himself entirely unmoved. Mistress of manipulation, deception and obfuscation, the slippery doctor has brought this on herself. 

Bedelia's face betrays no surprise when Will strolls in behind Hannibal. Other than a slightly curled lip, her expression is resolutely serene. 

'My apologies, Bedelia.' Hannibal is all attentive concern. 'It was unpardonably rude of us to leave you alone at the table for so long.'

New Will smiles, enjoying the performance.

'Not at all.' Graciously dismissive, Bedelia waves her right hand in the air, which instantly draws Will's attention to her left, curled tightly in her lap. Too tightly.

_What have you got there, Bedelia?_

He begins a leisurely circuit of the room, ostensibly to take his seat at the opposite side of the table.

'I can assure you, I felt no slight. I have no desire to rush this... experience.' It's the same breathy, affected cadence that has never failed to make Will's toes curl in irritation. It isn't failing now.

'I'm very glad to hear it.' Ever the considerate host, Hannibal lifts a tray of oysters from the table, proffering it to Bedelia. 'Would you care to make your own selection or shall I be mother?'

'Please do.'

Hannibal balances the tray with one hand and slips a serving spoon beneath a glistening oyster with the other. He leans across Bedelia to slide it onto her plate. Will, loitering by the drinks tray, catches the sudden change in Bedelia's expression: dull resignation to feral desperation.

A flash through the air. Silver tines. Will calculates roughly three seconds before Bedelia plunges them into Hannibal's exposed jugular. 

With a snarl he lunges forward, grabs her raised arm, squeezes until she cries out in pain and drops the improvised weapon. It falls with a clatter to the table and all three stare down at it in frozen silence: a small, deadly sharp oyster fork.

Hannibal is the first to move, replacing the tray carefully on the table. Nestling on their bed of ice, the shells gape open like astonished mouths. 

Will's breathing hard, chest rising and falling as he battles the temptation to rip Bedelia's arm from its socket. 

'Will.'

Eyes up, flashing righteous fury, searching for Hannibal's calm gaze and locking on to it. It centres him, quiets his screaming mind.

'Let her go, Will.’

With a contemptuous sneer, Will relinquishes his grip. 'Now _that_ ,' he declares, tongue dripping disdain, 'is what _I_ call unpardonably rude.'

Drops into his seat, heartbeat racing, adrenaline coursing. Perhaps, after all, the Lion holds sway. But for Hannibal, he will keep it in check. For Hannibal, he's beginning to think he will do almost anything.

_Prologue done. Time for Act One._

Hannibal is in his element. Order restored, he resumes his directorial role with gusto. 

'Pit-roasted leg, cooked on hot lava rocks, wrapped in ti leaves, and served on a bed of cane strips. The ice represents the Lake in Dante's Inferno.' He grins, looking between Will and Bedelia. 'Shall I carve?'

No words from Bedelia this time: she nods, a quick, jerky motion of her head, complexion slightly green. 

'By all means,' Will mutters. Swallows down the remnants of his anger as Hannibal serves up the main course: thin slices of delicately pink meat fanned out in the centre of each plate, served with tiny potatoes in their skins ( _nice touch_ ) and garnished with fruit segments. With a flourish, he drizzles blood red sauce in a swirl over each dish ( _slightly heavy on the symbolism, but okay_ ).

Taking his seat opposite Bedelia, Hannibal raises his glass. 

'What shall we drink to?'

Will's forehead crinkles. 'Gee, I don't know. I'm stumped.' Turns to his left, mock polite. 'How about you, Bedelia?'

Hannibal raises a quizzical brow. Bedelia, busy retreating into the false security of her morphine haze, fires one final salvo.

'To agency? And... participation?'

On a wave of realisation, Will gulps a large mouthful of wine. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want Hannibal to want this. The idea of Hannibal taking pleasure in consuming Bedelia...

_Fuck._

But the show must go on.

‘To agency.’ Stabbing the meat, Will cuts off a sliver and raises it to his lips, fixing Bedelia with a glacial stare. 'And participation.'


	7. Of Jealousy and Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter, you'll find [Arkarti's beautiful picture](http://68.media.tumblr.com/09444981a5b0988a9972192a264fc500/tumblr_odrh5af8SP1rrux9go2_r1_1280.jpg) which captures perfectly a moment between Will and Hannibal spanning Chapters 7 and 8. If you're over on Tumblr, [go tell her how amazing she is!](http://arkarti.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ************************************************************************************************

Will Graham is pissed. And tipsy. And jealous as hell.

The meat, he has to admit, is beautifully tender. Bedelia, predictably, declines to partake: just nibbles half-heartedly at pieces of fruit, back to ignoring her dinner companions. Will eats slowly, determined to finish. Determined to focus on taste and texture. Determined to _not think_ about the symbolism of this meal. And Hannibal? _Hannibal._ He chews with relish, radiating bonhomie, all smiles.

Will wants to kill him. 

As an alternative, while Hannibal is in the kitchen prepping dessert, Will needles Bedelia some more.

'Still sulking, Bedelia? You can't say I didn't warn you.'

_'I'd pack my bags if I were you, Bedelia. Meat's back on the menu.'_

'Or maybe you thought you were safe.' Mocking, vicious in his seething resentment. 'On the other side of the veil.'

Slowly Bedelia turns her head, meets his eyes, her own slightly unfocused.

'And now that _you_ are on the other side? Don't you risk the same fate?'

Will sweeps a hand through his hair, exposing the scar across his forehead. 'Been there, done that. I survived.'

Derision. 'That was intervention, not mercy.'

Reaching for his wine glass, Will affects nonchalance. A light shrug to cover a deep hurt. 

This bothers him far more than anything else Hannibal has done. This tipped the scale at Wolf Trap, when he was searching for the strength to send Hannibal away. This gnaws at him still.

Bedelia presses on. 'I've been admiring your latest... mark.' Her glance lingers on his scarred cheek. 'They're getting harder to hide, aren't they? I imagine that pleases him.'

'He didn't give me this one.' The urge to reach across and strangle her is becoming difficult to resist.

'A battle scar acquired in the service of your god? What could delight him more?'

_'You've just found religion. Nothing more dangerous than that.'_

Right one cue, Hannibal breezes in with the final course.

'Buñuelos, a traditional Latin American dessert signifying good luck. Sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, served with warm honey and café con canela y chocolate.' A beat. 'That's coffee with cinnamon and chocolate.'

'Good luck?' Bedelia's voice is high and tight. 'Dare one ask for whom, Hannibal?'

All she gets in response is a devilish grin. Hannibal's so chipper, he's practically bounding around the table. Will wonders sourly how it's possible that he's been silent for practically the entire meal and Hannibal has either failed to notice or failed to understand why. He's not sure which scenario is worse. Wishes desperately that he could just return to his suite, lock himself in the bathroom, shove two fingers down his throat and eject all traces of this interminable evening.

The tiny buñuelos look delicious.

Bedelia eyes hers as if they're coiled snakes on her plate. Will, popping one after another into his mouth, thinks he'd be amused if he wasn't busy replaying the main course in his head, over and over: Hannibal savouring every morsel, Hannibal relishing each bite. Hannibal satisfied. Sated. By _her_. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

'Bedelia, my dear, you seem tired.' Hannibal pats his lips with a napkin, drapes it across his empty plate, rises gracefully. 'Allow me to see you to your room. Will, why don't you pour yourself a whiskey and take it through to the living room? I shall join you shortly.'

Will barely even grunts an acknowledgement, but any moment now Hannibal's going to sweep Bedelia off her feet - well, foot - and Will's had about all he can take. He practically ejects himself from his seat, grabs the decanter of whiskey and two stubby glasses from the drinks tray and stumbles from the room. 

The strains of a harpsichord float through the empty spaces. A Bach Aria. It's familiar and soothing. It's Hannibal.

When Hannibal finally appears, framed in the living room doorway, Will's hunched forward in one of the blue armchairs, cradling his whiskey. He doesn't look up. Feels Hannibal scanning the room - scanning him - with shrewd eyes: Will's dinner jacket crumpled carelessly on the adjacent couch, bow tie on the carpet beneath, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, hair sticking up in ten different directions from running his fingers through it. Will knows Hannibal's reading a story of misery and rage in twenty different ways - doesn't care. 

'I fixed one for you.' Indicates the glass coffee table with a jerk of his head. Watches through his lashes as Hannibal retrieves the crystal tumbler and sits in the chair opposite. 

Crossing one leg neatly over the other, Hannibal takes a small sip of the amber liquid and settles back. Somewhere between Bedelia's room and here he's discarded his tie, yet in contrast with Will's dishevelled state, he still looks sleek and untouchable. And unfairly fucking gorgeous. Will's awareness of Hannibal's attractiveness is hardly new, but for so long he's buried his appreciation of that beauty beneath so many layers of mistrust and denial, he's been able to ignore his own responsiveness to it. Most of the time. 

Yet.

'You didn't enjoy tonight.' 

'Really? How could you tell?' he snaps.

Hannibal tuts but seems almost gleeful - certainly nowhere in the vicinity of annoyed. 'Now, Will. Your reliance on sarcasm is most unattractive. You wear it like an ill-fitting suit.'

'You want me to be attractive for you, Doctor?' A lazy drawl to cover his rising temper.

'I want you to be honest.'

'Alright.' Will slugs back the remains of his drink, sets the empty glass on the coffee table. He sits forward, feet slightly apart, linked hands resting between his knees. 'How about this for honesty? If I had to choose between having my head sawed open again or sitting through a repeat of tonight's dinner, it would be a fucking close run thing.'

Satisfaction derived from seeing the smug smile finally wiped off that handsome face is short-lived. Pain tightens Hannibal's lips and darkens his eyes before he veils them and takes a hefty swig from his glass. 

Will winces. 'Easy. You're not used to that stuff.' Agitated, he rises and paces the room, stops by the couch and turns to face Hannibal again.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag up the past.' 

'But you meant it.'

Hates the dull flatness of Hannibal's tone. Hates himself. Hannibal may have initiated this dance, but for most of their intimate pas de deux they've been equal partners - in intellect and imagination, in duplicity and betrayal. Yet not once has Hannibal thrown Will's transgressions back at him. Not even his latest and deadliest.

'You still have not forgiven me, have you?'

For another moment, Will remains by the couch, indecisive. Easy to allow Hannibal to go on believing that; a convenient buffer, allowing Will to maintain a measure of emotional distance.

Yet.  
Yet...

He crosses to the empty chair and perches on the edge of it, fixes Hannibal with an earnest gaze that he hopes conveys his sincerity.

'I _forgave_ you even as you were cutting into me.' Tone soft.

'But?' 

Hannibal isn't letting it go and maybe it's time they had this out. Will takes a deep breath.

' _Forgiving_ is one thing; _forgetting_ is another. If we're back to being honest, I've had a hard time accepting what you tried to do.'

'Because I wanted to eat you?'

Part of Will wants to laugh out loud at the absurdity of this conversation, but a larger part - the part that has been haunted by this for years - is set on finally achieving closure and won't be distracted.

'Because you wanted to kill me. And I know I'm being hypocritical - I had a knife. But...' Suddenly he feels completely foolish. 

_What the hell is the point of all this?_

'Will.' Now it's Hannibal who sets his drink aside, leans forward, mirrors Will's pose. 'The knife was your forgiveness, just as the bone saw was mine. Tell me, what were you planning to do with it, before Chiyoh intervened?'

'Planning?' Will rubs his jaw absently. 'I guess I was planning to use it.'

'To kill me?'

'I don't... Honestly?' A slow shake of his head. 'I don't know. In the abstract, in my dreams and fantasies, I never had a problem killing you.' 

_Face it, Graham, it was a fucking turn-on._

He smiles ruefully. 'But in reality I was always too damn conflicted to follow through.'

'Until the Dragon. Until the bluff.' A gentle admonishment.

_Okay, let's go there too._

'Even then, even as we - fell - I knew death wasn't a certainty.'

'But if it was going to happen, you wanted it to happen to both of us.' Hannibal's voice drops an octave. 'Together.'

' _Yes_.' A hiss of sound. 

_In the second before gravity tips them over the edge, he hears Hannibal's sharp intake of breath and closes his eyes, waiting for the disconnect, braced to accept it even as his heart screams in protest against the inevitable rejection. But as they start to fall headlong, Hannibal's arms close around him, enfolding him in a tight protective embrace, and as the sea rushes up to engulf them, Will's face is already awash with their mingled tears._

'You want to know whether I would have stopped without the intervention of Mason's men.'

Pulled back into the present, Will blinks. 'Would you?'

Hannibal purses his lips in thought. 'Despite appearances, I had not planned on eating you that night or in that manner, Will. It was an impulse.'

'A pretty theatrical one.'

'As you say.' A nostalgic smile. 'Yet while Uncle Jack howled in noisome protest, you were exquisite in your stoicism. Not for you the indignity of begging.'

'Well, you had injected me with enough drugs to fell an elephant,' Will reminds him dryly. 'So that helped. Would you have preferred that I'd begged?'

'Not you, Will. Never you.' Huskiness creeping in. 'I have thought many times about the road not taken.'

'Not taken because you were denied the final choice?'

'And because the consequences for myself, had I continued, would have been egregious.'

'Funny, I was thinking the same thing,' he snarks.

A chuckle that Will's pretty sure is self-deprecating. 'I'm not attempting to draw an equal comparison.' Hannibal breaks eye contact, looks down at his hands. 'But I know that my life would have lost all meaning and purpose had I ended yours. I choose, therefore, to believe that I would have stopped before the point of no return.'

_Did you just tell me that I'm your life?_

A steadying breath. It's a lot to take in, and god knows he's aware of how manipulative Hannibal can be, but he senses nothing but pained honesty coming from the man sitting opposite him, and he _believes_ him. A euphoric feeling, being able finally to draw a line under what happened. Impulsively, he wants to give something to Hannibal in return.

'I was jealous.'

'Hannibal raises his head slowly. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Tonight. At dinner. You were enjoying yourself so much and I - I was so fucking jealous, I couldn't see straight.'

A slow smile spreads across Hannibal's face. 'I was well aware of that fact, Will. I tasted the richness of your animosity; like a full-bodied wine, it added depth to the experience.'

Taken aback, Will stares. 'Oh?' His eyes narrow. 'Oh, I see. Now the spectacular mood you've been in all evening makes perfect sense.' 

'Are you angry?'

'No.' 

Not anger. Relief. Hannibal hasn't been blind to Will's feelings; he's been revelling in them. An involuntary grin tugs at his lips.

'I've missed this. I've missed you trying to make me crazy.' A short huff of laughter. 'What kind of crazy does that make me?'

'My kind of crazy.' A beat. 'Mine. It makes you mine, Will.'

Their eyes lock. 

' _Hannibal_.' Three syllables, drawn out with aching longing. 

Hannibal's gaze, awash with tenderness, knocks the breath out of him. 

_'Do you ache for him?'_

_Fuck it._

Before he can talk himself out of it, overthink it, Will's up out of his chair and closing the distance between them. Kneeling at Hannibal's feet, he reaches up to frame the face he knows as well as his own with trembling hands.

_We._  
_Us._

'And it makes you _mine_.'


	8. Of Kisses and Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter, you'll find [Arkarti's beautiful picture](http://68.media.tumblr.com/09444981a5b0988a9972192a264fc500/tumblr_odrh5af8SP1rrux9go2_r1_1280.jpg) which captures perfectly the kiss between Will and Hannibal. If you're over on Tumblr, [go tell her how amazing she is!](http://arkarti.tumblr.com/)

'Will,' Hannibal breathes. Worshipful. Adoring.

'No more talking,' Will mumbles unsteadily, eyes intent on Hannibal's mouth. 

Tentative at first, just a lingering press of lips. Soft, dry. Brushing back and forth, gentle, coaxing, until Hannibal opens to him on a sigh. Exquisite penetration and an explosion of arousal. Moaning into each other's mouths as they taste each other in a slow, sweet slide of tongues. Exploring. Savouring.

Will tilts his head for better access, hands slipping into Hannibal's hair, gripping the fine strands. The kiss deepens, Hannibal grasping Will's shirtfront, fingers knotting into the thin fabric, thighs parting as he pulls them flush together. Will gasps as Hannibal's fierce erection presses into his stomach and his own flesh swells in eager response. 

He wants to pull Hannibal down onto the carpet, rock their hips together, relieve the hot, sweet ache that demands satiation.

And then? He doesn't know. Only this Will is sure of. He feels. He wants. He needs. 

Something... more.

But... not now. _Not here._

Breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead to Hannibal's, trying to get his racing heartbeat under control. 

'I think - I think we should stop,' he murmurs, disengaging from clinging hands to rise, swaying slightly on his feet, drunk on finest single malt and Hannibal. All he can think, as he looks down, is how beautiful Hannibal is: hair in rumpled peaks, pupils blown, cut-glass cheekbones flushed. 

'Will?' The note of uncertainty tugs at him and impulsively he leans down and claims Hannibal's mouth with another swift kiss.

'I want you,' he whispers, fingers curling into Hannibal's shoulders. 'I do. More than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. It's frankly fucking terrifying.'

Hannibal shudders, closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, his lashes are wet. 'For me also,' he admits gruffly. 'For a long time I considered my feelings for you to be transcendent, Will. Beyond mere physicality. And yet...'

'And yet,' Will echoes tenderly, fingers kneading the firm muscle beneath Hannibal's jacket as he lingers, reluctant to step away. 'Look, I don't know what this means or even what I want it to mean. I would imagine that you don't, either. But that's okay. We can find out together.' He hesitates. 'Just - not here.'

'In Baltimore? Or - in this house?'

'In _her_ house.' He can't help the vehemence with which he spits out the words. The aesthetic of Hannibal and Bedelia dining together in splendour, regardless of the circumstances, has been an unwelcome reminder of their European... jaunt? Tryst? Love nest?

_Fuck._

Will's antipathy towards Bedelia is fast becoming pathological. 

Hannibal's hands creep up to curve about his waist, and reflexively Will's fingers tighten on Hannibal's shoulders. A slight shudder and an almost imperceptible shifting in his seat betrays Hannibal's continued state of arousal and it's tempting, oh, so very tempting, to just say 'the hell with it' and drag him upstairs. But she's up there. Will's hands fall to his sides and he takes a half step back. 

'Your jealousy is unfounded, Will.' Knowing eyes and a complacent smile do little to appease. 

'Yeah? You did run away with her.'

Even to his own ears, he sounds like a petulant schoolboy. But Hannibal's gaze is steadfast.

'Bedelia was not my first choice, if you recall. But I am a gregarious person, Will. Our relationship was... companionable.'

'Was it sexual?' he blurts out, instantaneously wishing the words unsaid.

Hannibal doesn't seem offended, just thoughtful. 'For a brief time we were intimate but it was a line which, in the end, neither of us felt comfortable crossing.' 

Bedelia had once hinted as much. _'Hannibal was never not my patient.'_ Still, the doubts had remained, gnawing at him, and Hannibal's confirmation serves to ease the tightness that's gripped Will for the past several hours.

Raising a hand, Will strokes his knuckles softly down Hannibal's cheek.

'Thank you. That - helps.'

Hannibal nudges into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed, and rubs his cheek against Will's curled fingers, a silent plea to prolong the contact. Swallowing hard, Will stills his hand, extricates himself gently and finally steps away. 

His previous words thrum in the air between them. 

_Not here._

Hannibal sighs and opens his eyes. 

Grabbing his jacket and tie, Will flashes an awkward smile. 'I guess I'll say goodnight. Unless you'd like a hand clearing?'

The surreality of this offer - to help scrape dishes of human remains - doesn't escape Will, but he figures, what the hell? He's through the looking glass now.

Hannibal rises fluidly, retrieves the empty tumblers from the coffee table, heads for the doorway. 'Thank you but no. I shall manage very well alone.' At the threshold he pauses, looks back, eyes sharp on Will's face. 'You look exhausted. Go to bed, Will. We can talk more in the morning. When you're ready, come down and I will make you breakfast. Turn left at the bottom of the stairs - the kitchen is the first door on your left.'

'Okay. So, goodnight then.' He's going for casual but to his embarrassment he just sounds mortifyingly forlorn. 

Hannibal's expression softens. 'Goodnight, Will.'

Ridiculous to feel bereft as he watches Hannibal walk away.


	9. Of Breakfast and Planning

Will is dreaming of Wolf Trap. 

_Propped against the pillows, he looks up expectantly as Hannibal approaches and picks up his notepad from the chair by the bed._   
_'No, leave it. Come here.'_   
_Will holds out his hand and Hannibal grasps it willingly, dropping the notepad on the floor as he climbs onto the bed and settles next to him._  
 _'Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?'_  
 _His clothes carry the chill of the outdoors but Will scoots closer anyway, shaking his head._  
 _'No need. The teacup came together. For us, you know, it always does.'_   
_And he smiles beatifically as Hannibal bends his dark head to claim him._

Morning comes far too soon. 

Will's slightly hungover, more than a little grouchy and unaccountably edgy as he throws on some clothes after his shower and shave: blue jeans and the previously rejected salmon shirt.

It reminds him a little of the one he'd worn to his first session with Hannibal after his release from the BSHCI. He hadn’t intended to wear it – had, in fact, splashed out on a new silk button-down in eggshell. He’d never spent so much on an item of clothing before, and the gushing saleswoman who'd zeroed in on him the second he'd walked into the high-end boutique had been nauseatingly eager to help.

_'So what kind of look are you going for? What's the occasion?'_

He'd debated a moment. Then, with decisive bite, _'First date.'_

_'Oh, I know just the one! Trust me, you'll be irresistible.'_

But the second he’d got it home, he'd known it would remain in its fancy black box, shoved in the back of the wardrobe. For some unfathomable reason, he'd still wanted to be _himself_ with Hannibal. So he’d fished out the iron and smartened up one of his favourite button-ups instead. Soft and slightly faded. Hannibal had still seemed appreciative of the effort he’d made, he recalls, with just the faintest twinge of leftover guilt.

His sort-of-morning-after edginess grows as he makes his way downstairs, following the smell of bacon frying - at least, he hopes it's bacon - and Hannibal's directions. The kitchen is small: minimalist chic to match the rest of the house. Hannibal's standing over a grill at one end of a black granite island, carefully arranging food on two plates: wafer-thin slivers of crisped meat atop fluffy hillocks of scrambled egg. Virgin Marys served in tall glasses, garnished with celery sticks and lemon wedges, complete the appetising picture. 

'Morning.' Will shuffles in, eyeing the doctor surreptitiously. No three piece suit today: for the first time since Will’s recovery, Hannibal's gone for smart casual with leather loafers, black pants and a burgundy shirt. The top button of the shirt is unfastened, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to expose strong sinewy forearms. 

_Armour removed._

He looks up.

'Perfect timing, Will.' Warm, smiling eyes beckon him closer. 'Please, take a seat.'

Grabbing the back of the nearest bar stool, one of four in stylish black leather and chrome, Will pulls it out and hoists himself up. Hannibal pushes one of the gently steaming plates towards him and holds out a napkin-wrapped set of cutlery.

'Thanks.' A frisson of awareness passes between them as Will takes the cutlery, fingertips brushing Hannibal's. He focuses on the food, shakes the cutlery out of the napkin, grabs the fork and starts shovelling egg into his mouth. It's light and creamy. Delicious. He says so, between forkfuls, then waves at the meat. 'This _is_ bacon, right?'

'It is.' Perched on the stool opposite, Hannibal smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a seductive note in his voice. 'Unless, that is, you were speaking metaphorically, in which case I'm afraid I must disappoint you. This was not a pig of the intellectual ilk.'

Will stares at him, fork suspended mid-air. Hannibal in teasing mode is captivating. Irresistible. 

_Fucking gorgeous._

Grabbing his Virgin Mary, Will tosses aside the celery stick and chugs down half the liquid, desperate for distraction. The intricate web of his feelings for this equally intricate man are almost beyond his comprehension. How to even begin the process of untangling them? 

_'Do you ache for him?'_

Biting into a crispy sliver of bacon, Will watches as Hannibal does the same, remembering the flavour of whiskey and heat in their kisses the previous night. Wonders with furtive longing how a combination of bacon, tangy tomato and Hannibal would taste. Hannibal's tongue flicks out to catch a stray crumb before it falls, his bottom lip glistening in the aftermath, and Will swallows a groan, gripped by an almost paralysing need to possess that beautiful mouth again.

Casting around for a distraction, he spots a padded Manila envelope at the other end of the breakfast bar. It's been sliced neatly open, presumably with the silver letter opener that lies beside it, and peeking out is an intriguingly thick pile of documentation. His glance slides from the envelope to Hannibal, who is watching him expectantly.

'Something you want to tell me?'

'Our new identity papers. They arrived by courier this morning.'

'So we can leave?' 

'Yes.'

A curious mixture of relief, elation and fear floods Will's limbs. Exhaling harshly, he drops his fork and shoves the plate to one side. 'Okay, so what's the plan?'

Hannibal tilts his head, considering. 'Short or long term?' 

Will's not sure he's ready to hear Hannibal's master plan, until a thought occurs which sends his stomach lurching painfully: future plan doesn't necessarily indicate joint plan.

'Just give me the broad strokes.' Anxiety harshens his tone, prompting a faint frown from Hannibal.

'Very well.' Hannibal pushes his own plate aside and Will's fingers itch with the desire to trace the tendons mapping the backs of those large hands, to feel the combination of softness and rigidity just beneath the surface of skin. Scrubbing his fingers through his hair, he forces himself instead to focus on Hannibal's words.

'Although I have procured false identities for us, it would be foolhardy to attempt to leave the country by conventional means.'

'Fair point. And the _un_ conventional means?'

'Private jet.'

'You've hired one?'

'I've bought one.'

That provokes raised eyebrows. 'If you don't mind my asking, how is it that you have seemingly unlimited means?'

A brief smile. 'I don't mind in the least. My means are hardly unlimited, though it is true that my family's fortune is vast. I did not realise how substantial until some years after my uncle's death, when my Aunt Murasaki discovered that he had hidden away a significant proportion of his inherited wealth in order to avoid losing it to inevitable death duties.'

'Hidden it how?'

'Real estate, mainly, as well as shares in various companies, all acquired through dummy corporations which could not be traced back to their original source. Once this information was in my aunt's possession, she alerted me and eventually I was able to lay claim to our lost inheritance.'

'So how did your aunt find out about what your Uncle - Robertus?' At Hannibal's nod, Will continues. 'About what he had done?'

'She found a letter which he had left for her decades earlier but which he had, unfortunately, hidden rather too well. Years of hardship - and tragedy - might have been avoided if he had taken greater care.'

_Mischa._

Impulsively, Will reaches across the breakfast bar, touches Hannibal's hand. 'I'm sorry. Where is your aunt now?'

Lacing his fingers through Will's, Hannibal catches his gaze, and Will's breath hitches at the naked hunger reflected in those dark eyes. His fingers tighten around Hannibal's and seconds tick by before Hannibal again speaks.

'In Paris. I have not seen her for many years, but that is not our destination.'

_Our destination. Our._

_We._   
_Us._

The knot in Will's stomach eases and he fights a grin. So very definitely _not_ being abandoned.

'Getting back to the private plane, I presume that's an attempt to minimise the risk of detection.'

Hannibal strokes his thumb backwards and forwards across Will's wrist. 'It does bypass most of the usual security checks. I have a small staff already in place at the other end, including a ground handler who has secured a landing permit for us.'

Hard to ignore the flutter of arousal that's growing in intensity with every soft pass of Hannibal's thumb. Will clears his throat.

'Is it a surprise or am I allowed to know where we're going?'

Rather than taking offence at his acerbic tone, Hannibal chuckles, a rich, warm sound.

'How do you feel about Argentina?'

The sum total of what Will knows about Argentina would fit on the back of an FBI ID card.  
'You speak Spanish, right?'  
'Yes.'  
'Then I feel fine about it.' He hesitates. 'I presume you know that they have an extradition treaty with the US.'

Hannibal shrugs, releasing Will's hand and rising to clear the plates. 'There are few countries left in the world that do not, but that concerns me less than being able to continue enjoying art and culture and beauty in all its forms. I will not hide away from the world, Will.'

'Yeah, that philosophy didn't really work in Italy though, did it?' Will's still sore about the whole 'living in ostentatious splendour with Bedelia' thing. 

Hannibal is unruffled. 'In Italy, I had an unwilling accomplice sprinkling breadcrumbs wherever she went.' 

'You sprinkled a few yourself,' Will reminds him dryly.

'Of a different sort.'

_'He left us his broken heart.'_

'You wanted to be found,' Will murmurs, eyes cast down at his shadowy reflection in the glossy surface. Slowly he traces it with a finger.

_By me_ is the unspoken tag that hangs between them.

'And still, it was a private bounty that snared me, not the police. The source of that bounty is no more.'

As Hannibal busies himself at the sink, Will pushes back his stool, walks slowly around the island. Leans against it, elbows resting on the worktop. He should probably offer to help but he's enjoying the view too much; such graceful economy of movement, as Hannibal scrapes, suds and rinses. Their symbiotic dance on the bluff allowed him to tap into a measure of that grace. 

Hunger rises. For more of that feeling.

Of closeness. Of oneness. With Hannibal.

_Turn around._

'And what's to be done with Doctor Du Maurier?'

Hannibal pauses mid-rinse, pan in hand. 'Whatever you like. Do you have something particular in mind?'

'Yeah.' The words tumble from Will's lips almost before the thought is fully formed. 'Let her live.'

_Turn around._

The pan is placed carefully on the draining board. There is a stillness about Hannibal now. 'Pity, Will?'

'More like,' he pauses, considering, 'recognition.' A half-smirk. 'For valour on the field of battle.' 

Figures Bedelia's earned a degree of leniency for having stood her ground after Hannibal's escape, knowing what the probable cost would be.

'If we leave Bedelia alive, then we might as well grant Freddie Lounds a Tattle Crime exclusive on our miraculous survival.' Hannibal pauses. 'And on your new status as my - accomplice. Everyone will know.'

'Let them know.' Each word enunciated with brittle defiance.

Hannibal finally turns around, fierce affection etched into every line of his face.

'Jack will know.'

'I don't care.'

A faint smile curves Will's mouth and he straightens up as Hannibal stalks across the space between them until they're practically toe-to-toe. 

'Molly will know.'

'I. Don't. Care.' Cold. Resolute. Wanting only one thing and refusing to be distracted.

The merest hint of a sigh as Hannibal cups Will's face in his hands. 'That's my boy.' 

The words are wrung from him. 'I want to be. I am.' 

'What?' Hannibal leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Will's. 'Say it. Say it, Will.'

'Yours. I’m yours. Your boy.' An aching whisper.

' _Will_.' 

How can one word, one syllable, convey such a wealth of awe and wonder and delight? The reverberations of that low growl shiver through Will and his fingers grasp Hannibal's shirtfront to tug him closer. 

His eyes drop to Hannibal's mouth, bottom lip curved and inviting. Will leans in, captures it between his teeth, nips gently before stroking with his tongue.

Hannibal's lips part on a soft gasp and desire flares, hot and heavy, in the pit of Will's stomach. One hand comes up to sink into Hannibal's hair, fingers carding through the silky strands. He licks into Hannibal's mouth, tasting salt and sweetness, eyes fluttering closed as Hannibal kisses him back, deep and slow.

Will is flushed, aroused, wanting. 

Something. Now. _Hannibal._

Pinned against the island, pressed against the heat and hardness of an insistent body. Soft moans and softer sighs passing between them as they explore each other’s mouths with hungry thoroughness.

Slowly, reluctantly, Will pulls back, presses a final kiss to Hannibal's lips to soften the withdrawal.

'I'm sorry, just -'

_Not here._

Fingers caress his cheek, eyes gentle on his face. 'I understand.'

Will covers Hannibal's hand with his own. A shared smile of understanding, need, promise. This is postponement only.

An untangling of limbs, a stepping away and _fuck_ , it's hard.

Between them they've opened Pandora's box and nothing can close it again.


	10. Of Closeness and Acceptance

They retreat to their chairs at the breakfast bar, to cooling cups of coffee and a chance to regroup.

The exertions of the previous day - physical and emotional - have taken a toll. Will is utterly drained and his own exhaustion is mirrored in Hannibal's drawn face, in the grey lines of tension bracketing his mouth and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes as he orders Will upstairs to rest for a few hours.

Will's acquiescence is conditional. 'Okay, I'll go – but you, too.'

Hannibal's mouth drops open and his startled response prompts a flood of colour to Will's cheeks. 'I didn't mean - not in the same -'

And then he snaps his mouth shut. Maybe that's _exactly_ what he means. And why not? This isn't five years ago, when the watchwords for their relationship were denial, deception, rejection. Now everything is different. Now _they_ are different. Now the barriers between them are down. The fall crushed them utterly; the tide swept them away. Now they are truly connected. _Conjoined._

He goes for honesty.

'I want you close, Hannibal.'

He knows he's not being fair, especially in the way he rations out his use of those three syllables, fully aware of the power he wields when he does so. Knows it from the subtle hitch in Hannibal's breathing, the dilation of his pupils, the sudden tension in his shoulders as he picks up his coffee cup and drains it without a word.

Will perseveres, hungry for a reaction. 'To know you're there. Just for a little while.' 

_Just forever._

Hannibal's silent. 

_Am I pushing too hard?_

This isn't about sex – he’s made it clear that's off the table as long as they remain in Bedelia's house, besides which he isn’t even sure it’s a leap they’re anywhere near ready to take - but there's a difference between stealing a few kisses and going to bed together, even if the intention is only to sleep. There's a huge measure of trust involved, not to mention intimacy, and maybe it's too much, too soon.

Suddenly regrets having opened his mouth.

'Look, it's no big deal. You should probably try to rest at some point, though - you were shot, remember.'

Avoiding Hannibal's eyes, he slips from his seat and heads back out to the foyer, leaving it to Hannibal to stay or follow. Doesn't look back and his heart is hammering in his chest, but as he makes his way slowly up the stairs and there is no echo of footsteps on the marble floor behind him, the pounding slows to a dull thud. 

_He's not coming._

Back in his room, Will surveys the bed morosely. His shoulder aches and he's ready to seek relief from the humiliation of rejection in oblivion. Shoes kicked off, shirttail tugged viciously free of his jeans, he flings himself down on top of the covers, gazing sulkily at the ceiling.

_What now? Counting Wendigos?_

He's been lying there for all of five minutes when the door's pushed open and Hannibal strolls in. Every muscle in Will's body freezes, eyes tracking Hannibal's movements as he removes his shoes and lowers himself onto the mattress, uttering a deep sigh as his head hits the adjacent pillow. 

Will clears his throat. 'I thought you weren't - I mean, I assumed you didn't want, um -'

_For fuck’s sake._

An undercurrent of humour beneath Hannibal's prosaic reply. 'I needed to wash the coffee cups before I came up. They would have stained otherwise.' 

Will wants to say something witty in response, but he's caught the scent of Hannibal's cologne, rich and woody, and he's fighting the urge to roll over and bury his face against Hannibal's neck, breathe in the delicately spicy notes.

For a few moments, silence, gossamer-fine, hangs between them. 

When Will ventures again to speak, his voice is mortifyingly husky. 'I'm glad you came. I thought maybe I'd made you uncomfortable.'

The bedsprings creak as Hannibal eases himself onto his side. Automatically shifting so that they're face to face, Will is pinned by incredulous eyes.

'Will, do you imagine there is any power on earth that could keep me from your side, knowing you want me there?'

Only one response to a declaration of such devotion. Will reaches out, curls his fingers around Hannibal's jaw, leans in for a lingering kiss before retreating again to separateness, though not entirely. He can't resist seeking Hannibal's hand, slotting their fingers together. A comforting connection that lulls him into sleep. 

He wakes alone, warmed by the rays of the low afternoon sun streaking through the slats in the blinds. For a long time he lies motionless, face turned to the window, contemplating the new life he's on the cusp of. And wondering at the irony of embarking on it with the man he fought so hard, for so long, to rid himself of. 

Once rejected, now sought.

Once reviled, now desired.

No, _always_ desired. But willingly now. Desperately, even.

Jaw cracking on a yawn, he stretches indolently and rises to go in search of Hannibal and food. 

Finds Hannibal fixing coffee, rich and dark. 

Finds himself fixed with a look of such tenderness, he wants simultaneously to cling to and run from it.

_We._   
_Us._

Bold steps this time, across the kitchen to stand at Hannibal's side. Murmured thanks as he takes the proffered cup, free hand curving around Hannibal's nape, drawing him in for a slow kiss. Because he can.

When they surface, Hannibal's cheekbones are stained a pleasing shade of pink.

Will strolls to the opposite side of the island; leans across the breakfast bar, cradling the tiny cup of espresso. Smiles.

'So, tell me about Argentina.'

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I took the Hugh Dancy approach to the fall and its immediate aftermath (see 'Secondo's' blooper scene!) - the characters have 'materialised on the other side'...  
> 2) Volume 1 is a slow burn. There is LOTS OF SMUT in Volume 2. Just so you know! ;)
> 
> I LIVE for readers' comments, no matter how brief, but kudos are equally welcome. ;)  
> This is my first long fic so please be gentle with me!  
> I hope you enjoy reading this story. I have LOVED writing it!  
> 


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